


293 - Van McPan, A Bonfire & A Sneaky Spliff

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert, Van McPan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “…van mcpan… my soft idea; van n reader havin cuddles n gettin stoned and van’s cuddled against reader and reader is playing with van’s hair and tracing the freckles on his arm, and van is playing with his fingers and hyper-fixating on tracing readers veins n lines on the inside of the readers palm. just SOFT ! STONED ! van mcpan n his love bein so cute love” from my babe Isla





	293 - Van McPan, A Bonfire & A Sneaky Spliff

**Author's Note:**

> A Van McPan, boy Reader, mini-fic for your Saturday morning.

It should have been predictable really. The constant supply of lit cigarettes hanging from between his soft lips. The dream house wish list comprising of only one thing: a working fireplace. The preference for winter over summer. The bodily pull to where scented candles were placed around apartments and homes. Van McCann’s bright blue eyes were glazed over, shiny and reflective. You watched the flames of the bonfire in them, wondering how you didn’t think to bring him to one sooner. His immediate love for the burning pile should have been predictable and you wondered why you’d worried about that night at all.

Maybe that had something to do with Van being your first boyfriend. Of course, he had hooked up with plenty or boys… and girls… and… well, pick a gender identity and he’d been in love and lust with them. It wasn’t as if he was particularly political in those relationship choices, and he certainly had no awareness of how progressive he was being, it was simply that Van was born a lover. And, love was what he did best. Loving you is what he did best-best.

“I like ya mates,” Van said, briefly looking up from where he was sitting on the ground.

When you had made the introductory rounds and picked up a couple bottles of beer, you sat in a vacant outdoor camping chair. Van had plonked himself on the dirt in front of you, leaning back and using your legs as very high armrests. His tall frame allowed for such positions and when he rolled his head back onto your thigh and looked up beyond you to the countryside night sky, you were exceedingly grateful that it did.

“Yeah? That’s good,” you replied, running your fingers through his hair. Van’s eyes closed in response; a state of bliss could always be achieved by playing with his hair. “Think they like ya too. Don’t think you’re what they expected,”

“Thought you said they Googled me?”

You laughed. “Well, yeah, like, they knew what you look like and everything. Know about Catfish and all that, but… I don’t know. You’re different in real life… And, you know, they were all kinda shocked, or whatever, when I… came out,” you tried to explain as you looked around the bonfire party.

Friends that you’d had since high school sat around drinking and smoking, dropping marshmallows into the fire, and sneaking off in pairs and trios. Some spied out of the corner of their eyes when they thought neither you nor Van were watching. They whispered about how proud they were of you. How the man you were growing into was far removed from the boy you once were. They spoke of Van. 

Van, the rock star you’d somehow befriended on the London tube. An act of serendipity that lead to love. Van, the absolutely gorgeous puppy dog they were dying to hear smutty stories about when you and he got that far.

Continuing, you said, “So, like, I guess they all had a certain type of guy in their minds, you know? That I would get with. Then… there’s you,”

“There’s me,” Van said, opening his eyes and grinning up. “Am I living up to the… image in their minds, do you reckon?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Van moved, rearranged himself so he was on his knees in front of you, his elbows propped on your thighs. It was a request and you obliged. As you leaned down and kissed him, you could hear the crackle of the fire, the small explosive pop of things that shouldn’t have been thrown to the flames. 

Cupping Van’s face in your hands, you felt how hot his skin had become. "Your skin’s hot. Are you okay? Wanna move back a bit?“ you mumbled as your lips parted from his briefly.

Van shook his head then tilted it back up to yours. While you kissed, he took one of your hands and threaded his fingers through yours. That was something you learnt about Van very quickly; he was couldn’t sit still and would always find a subconscious method of moving. He played with your hand aimlessly while you both lost yourself in the kiss and the smoky scent and warm air 

"Do you want… a cheeky spliff then?” you offered when you parted, then spied Blue across the bonfire. Van grinned. “Alright. Come on then.”

Van stood first, casually draping an arm around your shoulders as you walked. 

Blue smiled and did a little, happy shimmy as you approached. "It’s my favourite boy!“ she said, dragging the ‘oi’ sound out for added sass and pizazz. "And… my boy’s favourite boy?” she added, nodding at Van.

“Blue, this is Van. Van, Blue,” you introduced. “Ah, Blue was my neighbour growing up. And now she's…”

“The local drug dealer,” she finished for you, rocking on her heels with pride.

Van laughed. “Must be makin’ a mint then. Business good?” he asked her, immediately enjoying her honesty and somehow-sweet brashness.

“I do okay,” Blue replied. “Not as good as a rock star though, hey?”

“Think I got a bit of a way to go before there’s champagne and helicopters and all that,”

“But you’re on your way. And you’re taking this one,” she said, reaching out to poke your shoulder.

Van nodded, then pecked a quick kiss to the side of your head. Lit only by the bonfire and a few stray car headlights, neither Van nor Blue could see you blush. Changing the subject, you began your mates-rates transaction with Blue while Van shook loose pieces of flying soot from your hair and his.

“Thanks, Blue,”

“Yeah, no worries, mate. Also, here,” she said, reaching into her back pocket and pulling her keys out. “My truck’s just over there. Got some blankets in the back. Get 'em out and put them in the tray. Little private nest under the stars,” she offered in a voice that would make anyone think she was mocking you, but you knew she wasn’t.

 

…

Van stood by Blue’s truck, excitedly bouncing on the spot and holding the joint in his hands like it was utterly priceless while you pulled the blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows out from the truck. He remained unhelpful while you set up the makeshift bed too. But, that was okay; just having him close to you, talking shit, was as close to perfect as any moment could get.

In the tray of the truck, you wriggled around and found a comfortable position on your back. “This is not half bad,” you said, watching Van do his own wriggling about.

Van ended up on his side, lighting the joint and offering it to you first. You let him put it between your lips and hold it while you inhaled deep. He watched intently as you breathed out and up into the sky. Somewhere your breath and your smoke would join that of the fire.

Once you were both sufficiently high, you cuddled up and tangled your limbs together. Van’s clothes smelt like the bonfire ashes, his hair of the mint shampoo he said totally counteracted the cigarette smell. While it was all new, the relationship… the boy-boy thing…, Van still felt so fucking familiar. If you were more prone to cliché, you might have said he felt like home, but you didn’t want to get too ahead of yourself.

“I'm… I’m so fuckin'… I could jus'… jus’ melt,” Van slurred, nuzzling his head into you. “Fuck,”

“Yeahhhhhhh,” you agreed in a whisper. “But… where… where the freckles at?”

“Huh?”

“I wanna see… the freckles on ya arm… 'cause look,” you said, moving a little to point up at the stars. Van followed, looking up. “Like how to stars make pictures, you know? Like… Orion’s Belt… and ah… the star signs,”

“Constellations,” Van clarified. That was another quick-to-learn thing about him; whilst he spoke in slang and sentence fragments, Van had a good vocabulary. There was evidence of that in both his lyrics and conversations.

“Yeah… and then it’s like that on ya arms… with the freckles… but it’s too dark to see.”

Van laughed, slowly at first, then it rolled on into a fit of giggles that was entirely a consequence of the dope. Your consequence was a spaced out void where you didn’t laugh along with Van but just listened to the sound while being disconnected from Planet Earth.

“What 'bout… here,” Van said when he had stopped laughing. His phone was out of his pocket and the torch was on before you had even realised he spoke. The happy gasping sound you made when his arm was illuminated made Van want to propose marriage then and there.

The sensation of your fingertips tracing invisible lines between the stars on his arm made him feel like he was simultaneously drifting into sleep and reaching ecstasy in orgasm. When your mapping was done and his galaxy charted, you kissed Van’s hand like a knight would a lady.

“My turn,” he said, taking your arm. “You got them good veins… like how Bond has…”

“Bondy?”

“Mmmhmm,” Van confirmed, following the blood down your arm, across your wrists, and into your hands. “One time we was out in the middle of nowhere… like… We was in the U.S., but on the road in this tiny van before we got buses. We stopped to get petrol and to piss and all that… and there was this lady doin’ the palm readin’ thing, right.” Van McCann. Teller of stories. You were already giggling despite none of the narrative being funny. “Blake was up for it straight away, and Bond. They got real, like… vague… predictions… or fortunes or whatever, you know what I mean? Like, coulda’ applied to anyone. But then I had a go,”

“She tell ya 'bout me?” you asked.

“Would’ve come back 'ere sooner if I knew 'bout you, babe,” Van answered your stoned-not-very-good-joke with a serious(ly cute) answer. “But she was like… There is darkness in ya future… Then, not even fuckin’ tell tales, then she goes… Blood! I see blood!”

“Was there blood?” you, very fairly and naturally, asked.

“I’m gettin’ there! I’m gettin’ there! So, she says the blood thing. Bond and Blake are losing their shit. We all get back in the van, all good, all good. We get to the next city… ah… Nah, don’t remember what it was… Go to soundcheck and I fucking kid you not, me and Larry go to swap guitars, run into each other, and I get a fuckin’ face full of Fender. Blood comes pissin’ out of me nose. Ruined my good July Talk t-shirt. Get blood all over the nice stage. Everywhere! How fuckin’ crazy is that!”

Van thought you were laughing with him at the outrageousness of his story. You let him think that. It wasn’t completely untrue; whenever Van laughed it kinda made you laugh. Something about the strange irregular rhythm of it was so pure. However, for the most part, you were laughing at the anti-climactic ending of his palm reading story. Bless Van and his easy-to-entertain nature.

“That's… that’s real fuckin’ spooky.”

Van considered your response for a second, then two. “Are you takin’ the piss?”

“What?! Me?! Never!”

“Fuckin’,” Van started to mumble, dropping his phone and abandoning his dreamy state. “Fuckin’ Mr. Hard to Impress.” He burrowed under a blanket and pushed his way into your arms. 

You laughed and bundled him up like a sulking child. "Why ya tryna’ impress me?“

"M'not,” he said, barely speaking loud enough for his voice to be audible. Sulking child.

When you’d both calmed down, the mood settled and it all felt heavy again. Without banter, the bonfire and conversations of all your friends were the loudest sound under the deep blue sky. The sky… You’d always look at it differently after that night. After sleeping below it but high enough to touch it, the nighttime blue would forever suit your skin better than any brilliant sunshine.

Van was almost asleep. He had one arm somewhere under you and pillows and blankets, but his free hand was drawing circles across the warm surface of your chest. Both your arms were around him and your left hand was close enough that you could twirl a finger or two around the soft locks of hair at the base of Van’s neck. You loved the way his hair grew into a wave like that, flicking up adorably. 

As your eyelids grew more and more heavy, you closed them and let yourself picture Van with that almost-shoulder-length messy mop hair. You’d seen it in photographs of Catfish’s early days. Current Van, your Van, had a sharper haircut than that. He dressed better and looked like a man, not a boy. Still, when he was cuddled up on your couch at home, dressed in pyjama pants and a hoodie, nursing his fluffball of a dog, Van was who he had always been.

With your last ounce of energy, you whispered, “Night, baby,”

“Like… like the fire sound…. Sounds… good… Night, babe. Love you.”


End file.
